Chapter 34 #2
Only when his jaw ticks in irritation do I refocus on Riven and my Omega.
The Omega.
Not mine.
Damnit.
I swear to the Fates my right eye twitches when I look back to find him crouched in front of her, giving her an encouraging smile.
“What was it you just said?” He repeats softly.
Idril clears her throat. Her hands fly to her oversized shirt. She wraps her fingers in the fabric so tightly that her knuckles turn white. She twists the cotton over and over, and my eyes narrow at the movement.
Then I squint, because—
Are those holes in the top of her leggings?
“My mother…” Her voice pulls my attention away from her clothing. Her eyes flick to Dax, and she hesitates. The fear in her bright blue eyes is so real, so visceral, that I take an involuntarily step back in panic.
I swallow thickly, forcing down how uncomfortable her terror makes me feel.
What the hell is that about?
“He won’t say a word, Omega. I swear it. This conversation is just between you and me.”
She’s curled in her chair, her arms now wrapped around legs tucked tight into her body. Her shoulders are hunched, like she’s bracing for a blow.
My stomach drops further.
“My mother used to tell me stories.” She finally whispers. “Maybe… maybe she was Irish?”
She peeks up at Riven, and it’s such an obvious Omega gesture—the desire for validation and approval from an Alpha—that I nearly look away.
Gods, her instincts must be going haywire.
Riven nods encouragingly, and Idril visibly relaxes. The interaction causes something mean and jealous to twist in my stomach.
I should be the one giving her that approval. It should be me she looks to for encouragement.
I would—
You would what? Probably sneer at her or glare or spit out something cruel because you don’t know your mind from your ass, you cowardly knot-for-brains.
An image of Caelan’s broken body picks that exact moment to pop into my head. Guilt smothered in shame wraps around my lungs and squeezes, reminding me that every time I have thoughts like this about the Omega, I’m essentially stabbing my best friend—my brother and packmate—in the fucking back.
Fates, I’m losing my mind.
Idril shrugs. “I don’t really know. She died when I was young. Right after my designation came in.” She looks at Dax, and there’s something angry in her eyes that I don’t understand.
“When I was little, she’d tell me stories all the time. One in particular. It had that part in it.” She nods toward the papers Riven’s been translating, then looks down at her hands, curled into fists.
“What was the story?” Riven asks.
“It was just a story about a girl. A princess, maybe. Or—”
”A princess,” Dax sneers.
Great, apparently he’s hit his limit of time spent shutting the fuck up.
I glare at him for interrupting her.
He throws up his arms and scoffs. “A story about a fucking princess. Oh come the fuck on, we aren’t entertaining this shit, are we?”
We all ignore him.
“How did the story go?” Riven cautiously reaches for her hands and wraps them in his. His much larger, tattooed ones completely engulf her small, delicate hands.
The pure, undiluted jealousy I feel in this moment is so hot that I’m like ninety-percent sure I black out for a second.
When I blink back to consciousness, Dax is looking at me like he has no idea who the hell I am.
I nearly snort out loud.
Join the club, brother. Meetings are on Thursdays. It’s basically ninety minutes of me licking paint off a lead wall and muttering ‘This is fine,’ while my Alpha instincts taunt me with increasingly erotic images of my Idril pinned to the nearest flat surface with my teeth lodged in her neck.
Fates. Dax is genuinely going to make me dig my own grave if I don’t get it together.
“How did the story go, ma pichona?” Riven coaxes with that old French term of endearment, I know damn well he’s using to soften her up.
And fuck me, it works. Idril sags, her shoulders relaxing as tension leaves her body.
“My father was gone sometimes. And when he was gone, my mother would make, well…” she pauses, considering. “I suppose, now that I think about it, she was making us a large nest.”
A small smile tugs up the corner of her lips, and it’s like the damn sun coming out from behind a cloud.
As she speaks, the memory softens her voice, and I swear the chill in the room eases.
The whole library feels still, like it’s leaning in to listen.
“She would gather all the pillows and blankets she could find and take the cushions off the couch, then put everything in a big pile in the living room. Then she would put blankets up, hang them from the ceiling with clothespins and stuff, you know?”
She sighs, and Riven rubs slow, gentle circles on her wrist, right over her pulse point.
“We would stay there for days. Hiding away from the world. From my father’s security and all the cameras. We would sleep, have picnics, and watch movies. Mostly, though, she would read to me.”
I can’t stop the lump of emotion forming in my throat.
“Those were my happiest memories with her. Just the two of us, and all her stories. About queens, and people who were stuck in another world. People who could do magic—real magic. Make trees and flowers grow. She said the wind listened to their voices and would carry secrets between friends who were hundreds of miles away from each other.” She peeks up at Riven through her lashes, a soft smile playing on her lips.
Then, her eyes drift over Riven’s shoulder. The moment she notices Daxen, the moment shatters.
Whatever she sees, it has the smile dropping off her face like it was never there at all.
“Adorable,” Dax mocks. “I love how you both hid in your fancy fort while your father terrorized other people’s mothers and daughters. Maybe in the future, you could try a little less selfish hiding and a little more helping others for once in your worthless life.”
Even I flinch at his cruelty.
If I thought I’d seen the Omega devastated before, it’s nothing compared to now. At first, there’s something sharp in her eyes, a glare half-forming on her face. I tense, thinking she might bite back this time. Shout at him. Explode in anger. Tell us we’re all pieces of shit.
But the anger disappears, and her body shrinks like she’s trying to disappear. She pulls her hands from Riven’s and brings them to her oversized shirt, curling them into the fabric.
This isn’t casual fidgeting, though. She does that often enough—I assume it’s a way for her to self-soothe with the closest soft material available.
This is… different.
Her fingers twist in the cotton. She gathers it in her fists and then smooths and straightens it against her stomach and chest, over and over. It’s strangely rhythmic, an almost compulsive set of motions that makes my lungs tighten painfully.
She works the fabric like she’s testing it, searching for something in the feel and texture that might give her what she’s so desperate to find.
Her fingers spasm around the cotton of her shirt before skipping down to her leggings and smoothing those down, as well. Her hands move from thighs to knees to ankles in long, deliberate strokes before retracing her movements.
Back down. Back up again.
The movements are mechanical. As though her body’s taken over and her conscious mind has completely checked out.
I watch her hands, trying to make sense of the frantic movements.
Then it clicks, and my stomach drops all the way to hell.
She’s nesting.
Or… fuck. She’s trying to nest.
Trying desperately to build something safe and soft out of the only materials she’s allowed. The only things we gave her.
The clothes on her body.
Her breathing turns shallow, and I swear mine starts mimicking hers. The tension in her shoulders builds and builds as her hands continue moving in that same repetitive motion that I’d do terrible things to stop.
She tucks one leg up under herself, then shifts and pulls the other up as well.
She hunches over. Curls into herself. Forces her body smaller and tighter, as if she can somehow create a nest out of that fucking chair if she just makes herself small enough.
And still, her hands never stop moving. Never stop gathering and arranging and smoothing the fabric of her clothes—a futile attempt at the hope that if she can just get it right, she’ll finally feel safe.
But she’ll never get it right. Because you can’t build a nest out of nothing.
And that’s all we fucking gave her.
Her breath hitches, and Riven reaches out slowly, gently, stilling her hands with his.
“Easy now,” he murmurs, his voice cracking with emotion.
Idril’s braid hangs in front of her face like a damn curtain, but I still catch the shift in her expression. One moment, she’s staring over his shoulder, eyes unfocused and glassy. Next, she locks her eyes on his and exhales a long, stuttering breath.
Riven holds her gaze. Neither of them moves. This isn’t a dominance thing. It’s Riven trying to understand something that Dax and I have clearly fucking missed.
A long moment later, his eyes close, and he hangs his head. His hands squeeze hers tightly, once. A single tear tracks down Idril’s cheek, carving a path down her face and over her lips. It hangs suspended on her chin before falling to the stone floor.
Dax glares at the spot where it lands with an intensity that makes my hackles rise. The air shifts again. It’s even warmer now.
There’s a heat that, as crazy as it sounds, seems to be coming straight from Idril. Her eyes are shut, her next words released on a whisper that’s saturated in an aching pain I can’t begin to understand.
Her voice shakes as more tears escape her lashes and fall down her cheeks. Despite the agony, her voice carries an underlying tone of importance that echoes through my bones.
“She will be born with a crown of starlight and carry fire in her veins. Her song will be the light that wakes the gate of sleeping kingdoms, and worlds will tremble when she takes her throne.”
Her eyes flutter open.
Slowly, like her entire body aches, she rises on shaking legs.